


Wreckage

by Spartapuss



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Post Defenders, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s01e08 The Defenders, Resurrection, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 16:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12085059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spartapuss/pseuds/Spartapuss
Summary: [One-shot]Post defenders. ( Because BOY that end)  Matt/Elektra are dying under the rubble.





	Wreckage

Stifling, crushing weight, absolute darkness. A gasping, as of small fish breaking the surface of tiny warm tanks. The air running out completely. Scarlet gloom behind eyes, and an unwinding of the brain into long strips of weak-limbed confusion. Regaining consciousness- how? Relentlessly, again and again, coming to once more in a delirium of feverish gulps, thrashing and straining against the weight of forty storeys of empty rubble. Warm body, there, so intertwined and protective as to be a single many-limbed organism. Matthew and Elektra. Elektra/Matthew/Elektra again. Inching, creeping, steadily upwards, limb by crushed limb, bracing against each other and against the cold pull of the hateful rock. Ever pursuing that faintest transparent wisp of clear, fresh air amidst a choking fume of dust and bone which drew the moisture from their combined lungs and made them retch and choke and die and choke and die again. Somehow, brought back, whether by strength of will or dragon bone or sheer dogged fury at the indignity of being buried, that this was not the end, upwards.

Bleeding and shattered, they at last pulled their flesh from between the stones and spilled haphazard, onto cool, damp rock. Unlike mangled concrete and jutting rebar, the planes of this surface were smooth and unadulterated human craft. A narrow tunnel, unmarked for sure, barely big enough for the trickle of water than crept underneath their bodies and soaked their crusted clothing until all was thick and damp. The liquid was rancid, and stank of the meddling of rats, and gutter-leavings, and untold putrescences from pipes and drains and stagnant puddles, but it was the most sublime moment of their dark little half-lives. They lapped gratefully.

For a blessed age, they did not die; merely lay as if dead, but with hearts beating wildly together at the strangeness of separation. In those few moments, there was an acknowledgement of each other becoming distinct beings, bound together nonetheless, but not the same any more. Instead of the dreamlike quality of the death-cold-fear-ache, there was sudden pain of earthly bodies, hot and sharp, wonderful and terrible. Neither looked human, covered as they were in dust and dried gore and fresh blood and old oil and yet more dust on top of that. Of the two barely recognisable bodies, Matthew’s was worse affected than Electra – hers, which had already been resurrected by darkness once before, somehow more able to withstand more of the same. He, reckless in his protectiveness towards her, bearing the brunt of the initial explosion on his back, torso and shoulders, barely able to crawl, more bones broken than not.

After they had rested, the heat of exertion began to fade, and she saw that his body was not retaining heat against the creeping damp. His heart was slowing, and his tired body cooling. With renewed urgency, she began their spider walk upwards again. This time, it was easier, because the way was clear, but harder too, as they were divided, and the other half was dying and useless, kicking his legs feebly at the dirt. She pulled at him again, and as they squeezed themselves around a blockage of tangled wire, Elektra felt her partner’s heart stop. A rumble, and another rock fall, as the beast of the earth grumbled and settled into its painful new formation. Dust fell into the space, into the air sacs of their spluttering lungs. The taste was of hot deserts, and fire, and blackened metal. His body warmed suddenly against hers, and he gasped back towards the living world, clutching at her in terror through the darkness.

Together then, upwards. Her climbing, him pushing up behind her, slipping in the water, sometimes falling, always blind in the complete and pressing darkness, but then, that had never been an issue before. The fresh air was stronger here, and even Electra could sense it now. The tunnel was cold, colder than they had ever been in Hell’s Kitchen, and it leached the warmth from them. Numbed, joyless, fingers curled and white, they scraped on through the narrow passage regardless. Sometimes they slept, or what passed for sleep down here, conserving heat and energy, curled tightly together as if they were one. Matthew’s body was dying again, Elektra knew, after she struggled to wake him once more, his soft breaths groaning softly next to her skin.

“Are we close?” She whispered, urgent, voice ragged and rough from the redundancy of words.

“Yes.” The replying grunt came, rasped through gritted teeth.

“Good.”

Interminable time later, unknowable in the dark and the cold, but measured instead by the pitiful waning of Matthew’s essence, they reached a larger tunnel junction. Matthew slumped sideways against a rusted metal grating, exhausted of whatever had been powering him until now. It seemed they were out of that nightmarish miasma had sustained their broken bodies before, and Elektra knew it was on her to keep her partner alive. There was just enough room to stand now, and though the action cost her dearly, and her broken ribs screamed, she took up her friend? - lover? - enemy? in her arms and began the long trudge to the surface.

Eventually she emerged through a broken manhole cover, into more blackness, or was it just night? Regardless, the air was fresh and she could smell green things and the smell of rain and car exhausts and a greasy kebab shop somewhere close. A siren wailed in the next street, and she gasped, hand clapped to the side of her head. The sudden clamour was startling after so many days trapped in the silent embrace of stone. Matthew moaned next to her; it was probably worse for his enhanced hearing. Ah. She remembered Daredevil. She remembered the Black Sky. She didn’t know what to do about that. There was a bell tolling somewhere nearby, something large and sombre, telling of cavernous buildings with arching windows and stained glass, and the hushed murmurings of the pious. Charity then. That would do. Then she could go. A drunk suddenly stumbled out of an alley, perhaps roused by the sound of the law. He noticed their silhouettes against the darkness, her stooped, supporting his collapsed body with an arm around her shoulders.

“He okay, sweetheart?” The drunk slurred, gesturing.

“Yes. Just had a few too many. You know how it is.”

The drunk guy laughed sympathetically. Realising his own similar circumstances, he waved an arm at them and stumbled off into the darkness again, presumably looking for a place to sleep.  
Here was the place where the bell tolled from, a vast building that even in the gathering darkness felt looming and grand. Yet, a soft orange light came from one of the upper belfry towers. A tiny replica of the church bell hung from a cord by the wide oak doors. Elektra shook it once, the loud peals ringing off the wet streets, and propped Matthew against the stone steps, his head lolling sideways.

By the time it stopped ringing, Elektra was gone.

The doors opened.


End file.
